Burned by the Tuscan sun (But Nailed by An Unlikely Italian)

The site of a torrid encounter...

I have not seen the Diane Lane romantic comedy “Under the Tuscan Sun” but I have paged through the very dissimilar book upon which it is based. Both are fantasies, of course, one of sundrenched expatriate rusticity, the other of rote escapist romance in distant climes. Hell, what’s wrong with escapist delusion? Occasionally, wicked thoughts begin to dominate the psyche; my own trip to Tuscany was troubled by an overpowering, subterranean itch, the carnal drive that unashamedly seeks a firm Mediterranean key to fit my North American lock.

Unfortunately, my strategy was flawed from the beginning. I was traveling in the off-season mainly for the purpose of solitude and writing, but composing smut has the delicious yet frustrating side-effect of acute arousal as the words strike the page and issue from the grimy imagination. But I couldn’t get laid to save my life—the panorama was as bone-dry as my privates were sodden. Maybe my dialetto toscano was rusty…

I was not staying in a Villa, but in a hotel outside Pienza named the “Villa del Sole,” with stucco walls and pastoral pretensions, or at least the kind of rusticity that comes from forlorn neglect and not the picturesque erosion of time. Lonely and decidedly un-f****d, I retreated to my room, where I opted to writing on my laptop in what can only be described as a masterpiece of Italian design, an oversized modern chair in a vague enfolding womb shape, imagining myself as Monica Vitti in “L’Avventura,” only infinitely less existential in aspect.

The lower end of the chaise had an inviting, upturned plywood lip and the upholstery was as pink as a welcoming pudenda. I state that in the interest of sheer observational rigor. But there’s no getting around the idea that I was sitting in a warm snatch. Fabulous.

I was writing a story not set in Italy, but in St. Moritz. I was following my usual technique: atmospheric exposition leads up to randy penetrative action described in crotch-dripping detail. As I typed, I felt myself reflexively rubbing my derriere and crotch against the edge of the chair, where the friction generated a sublime, perfectly executed frottage, and my fictional heroine mounted her newfound consort, I felt myself lost in the joyous motions of a surrogate frick, thrusting and moaning in double time. Then as if a Lamborghini has sideswiped me, I felt a volcanic rumble in my nether regions and a powerful release was accompanied by a surprising effusion, an eruption of fluid like Vesuvius. Call Suze Bright, I had my first orgasmic squirt thanks to my plywood Italianate frick-buddy. I cast off my panties and joyously let my dripping labia air out in the desiccated Tuscan breeze.

After awakening from my post-coital nap, still wrapped in the glorious chaise, I picked up my phone and ordered one of the chairs. After a labyrinthine series of calls from foreman to sales rep to shipping department, my tender companion was destined to arrive in Minneapolis.